


Things Left Buried

by Romiress



Category: Batman (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Canonical Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Gen, New 52
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 13:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19928545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/pseuds/Romiress
Summary: Dick Grayson finds out something he really wishes he hadn't.---Based on Slade's New 52 backstory which was retconned so hard and so fast we never saw any actual fallout from it.





	Things Left Buried

The first time Dick hears about it he's deep undercover. He's trying to hunt down a child trafficking ring, and he's being forced to sit there and listen to some disgusting old pedophile rattle off his conquests. Hearing it is turning his stomach, and it's only the thought of the half dozen kids who need saving that keeps him from there.

And then, right after a particularly long winded story about how some kid had a nice mouth or something, the guy just drops  _ and that kid turned out to be Deathstroke _ like it's no big deal.

Dick doesn't pay it much mind. Not really. But the guy's got a whole story about this kid-deathstroke and how it all ties in to his mafia connections, so Dick has to listen to the rest of it.

When the case is over and done with and the bastard is behind bars, he puts it out of his mind. The whole thing is obviously ridiculous, and it's pretty much the clearest case of mistaken identity Dick's ever heard of.

He doesn't think about it again until the next time he sees Slade almost three months later, when he catches Slade on a job in Bludhaven. It's the same thing it always is: They're fighting, and it's genuine, but it's the sort of fight they always have. Dick's not making a serious effort to arrest Slade (because they both know it's not going to happen), and Slade's not trying to kill him in return (because that's what professional courtesy means in their line of work). And then, mid-fight, Dick says "Hey, did you ever run with the mafia?" and things change.

Dick isn't exactly sure how right away, but when two blows later Slade cleaves right through his escrima stick Dick realizes what the difference is: Slade is actually trying to kill him. He's not even  _ slightly _ pulling his punches, and the third swing very nearly takes Dick's head off. It takes every bit of skill he has to keep it from doing exactly that as he frantically scrambles backwards.

"Woah!" He says. "Woah - this wasn't -"

He can't even talk because Slade is  _ after _ him. He isn't letting up, and as fast as Dick is he's sure as hell not  _ Deathstroke _ fast, and Slade manages to sweep his leg out from under him.

Slade steps on his throat and Dick chokes. Slade's expression is impossible to read under the mask, eyes hidden behind the whites of his lenses, but right then Dick's pretty sure Slade's pissed, because he's crushing his windpipe.

Dick takes a chance, probably the only chance he has, and stops pointlessly trying to get Slade's boot off his throat. Instead he signs, hoping Slade's himself enough to recognize it.

_ Didn't tell anyone, _ Dick signs as desperately as he can.  _ Won't tell anyone. _

Slade falters, boot lifting, and Dick sucks in a breath. He doesn't have long to recover, because Slade reaches down, grabs the front of his suit and hefts him off the ground until his feet are dangling.

"You are going to tell me who told you," Slade says. "Now."

This is not the time or place for witty comments. Not with Slade moments away from breaking his neck.

"He's in jail," Dick says, right around the time the implications start to hit him. "Tito Selvaggio."

He's just signed the death warrant for the guy. There's no question. Part of him wonders if maybe he should have fought that a little bit more, but this is something new and unexpected and  _ goddamn terrifying. _

Slade drops him and is gone before Dick can even pick himself up.

The encounter haunts him afterwards. He doesn't think it's possible to  _ not _ be haunted by that, to not feel like the knowledge is burning a hole in you. Because Slade wouldn't have gone on a warpath for something that was bullshit. Slade went on a warpath because there was something  _ true _ about it.

Tito Selvaggio ends up missing. Dick hopes, for his sake, that he's dead.

He keeps waiting for Slade to show up. To kick his door in and clean up the very last bit of evidence. But he doesn't.

Dick spends the next few months on edge. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never does. When he next runs into Deathstroke, he's with a team and he keeps his mouth  _ shut. _ Slade treats him just like normal, and he ends the encounter with a giant bruise across his shoulder but otherwise no worse for the wear.

It's another month after that before he's in a position to say anything at all. He's undercover at a bar, listening to gossip when he spots Slade in civilian clothes grabbing a drink, and he can't stop himself from sliding up to him, grabbing a seat on Slade's good side.

Dick has been known for many things, but a well developed sense of self preservation is not one of them.

"Think very carefully before you speak," Slade says, polishing off his drink in one go like he's considering leaving.

"I never think before I speak," Dick says. "Want to talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about it," Slade says, ordering himself another drink, which seems entirely pointless to Dick because he's pretty sure Slade's regeneration is too good to actually let him get drunk.

It's the principal of the thing, he imagines.

"There sure seems like there is," Dick says. "Considering you did kill a man."

"Is it weighing on your conscience?" Slade says with a snort. "Think of it this way: Every hour I spent killing him was an hour I didn't spend killing anyone else."

"Equivalent exchange."

Slade doesn't respond, just gets to drinking his new drink, and Dick is pretty sure he was supposed to be listening to some arm's smugglers, only the great big  _ what the fuck _ of Slade Wilson is sitting right there at the bar and he doesn't think he's going to be able to pay attention anyway.

"You sure you don't want to talk about it?" Dick says.

"Like I said," Slade says, and Dick's surprised to realize he doesn't look particularly angry or dangerous or anything like that, "nothing to talk about."

Dick doesn't think he's ever doubted something more in his life.

"It's nothing," Dick says, "but you killed someone for it."

"I'm cleaning up the trail," Slade says. "You'd think, trying to keep  _ your _ identity safe, that you'd respect that."

Dick doesn't think they quite have the same priorities there, but he makes himself take a deep breath.

"I'm just saying," Dick says, "that if you want to talk, you can."

Slade fixes him with a look. It's a look Dick's gotten a lot from him before, that  _ are you fucking kidding me _ look where Slade can't quite believe what he's hearing.

"Kid," he says, "when have I  _ ever _ talked about anything?"

Not even  _ with you. _ It's just there: Slade doesn't talk about his stuff, and he's sure as hell not going to talk about this.

"Just leaving the door open," Dick says carefully.

"And I'm closing it," Slade says, finishing off his second drink without so much as a glance sideways as he drops some money onto the counter to cover his tab. "And you're going to leave it closed."

Slade doesn't threaten him out loud, but the implication is there: Leave the door closed.

In the end, Dick does. He knows better than almost anyone that sometimes doors are better left closed. Sometimes people really  _ don't _ want to talk.

And he supposes that if Slade ever  _ does _ want to talk, he'll know where to find him.


End file.
